Thousand Dollar Cufflinks
by blank82
Summary: RoryJess, literati, RJ, whatever you want it call it. Based very, very, very loosely around that movie with the girl from vanity fair, not the magazine, with that guy from greys anatomy. Very, very,very loosely. I’m talking prostitute in the backseat loos
1. Chapter 1

Currently Untitled

Whoever said less is more wasn't kidding.

And if everyone went by that theory, maybe I wouldn't be staring down at a plate piled with gooey, half cooked snails. Slimed to perfection and basted with this weird cranberry sauce that looked frighteningly similar to… blood?

I should have gone vegetarian when I had the chance. All those years of burgers were catching up to me, in a sense where the ghost of past-cows-consumed was getting back at me for eating all his friends.

"Wow…" I managed to get out, smiling weakly at Dean, who was grinning proudly ear to ear. Proudly. As if to say to all the people in this big expensive French resteraunt, 'haha, I may not be garnished in pearls and thousand dollar cuff links, but I'm capable of ordering something besides free bread and water.' Which in this case is a pile of snails.

A pile of snails whose beady little eyes are staring accusingly at me, screaming 'you killed me! killed me!' in their high squeaky snail voices. The free bread and water is looking pretty good right now.

Then the dreaded words…

"Try some," Dean said, watching me intently, grin still fixed on his face.

Damn it. What to do? I forced a smile and stuck the tiniest piece of snail I could find onto the fork with the weird leaf design. Selected specially from the large variety of forks placed before me at the moment. Salad forks, vegetable forks… soup forks?

And bringing the snail to my mouth, I was dimly aware of my whole life flashing before my eyes. And a few couples nearby glancing at me sympathetically.

French fry. French fry. Pretend it's French fry. A nice, very cooked, very not slimy—Oh god have mercy that's definitely not a French fry.

As I struggled to zen out the wretched taste, Dean looked at me, still grinning expectantly, "Well?"

I forced the sides of my mouth to curl up, "Tastes like chicken."

If chicken means a big slimy lump swimming around in behind my teeth. Note to self: Stock up on Listerine.

He seemed satisfied.

Apparently so much he chose, at that moment, to drop down on one knee.

Oh dear lord I hope it's to pick up the fork that has currently slipped from my grasp.

He looks up, smiling and holding something out to me. I'm guessing it's not a fork. Unless a fork is a big silver engagement ring.

"Rory Gilmore, will you marry me?"

I'm staring, gaping actually, open-mouthed. Not good considering the stupid snail is still lying there half digested.

Okay Rory, this is a dream. This is a bad, bad, dream and I need to wake up. I need to pinch myself, I need to find a hammer and bash myself over the head with it, I need--

--"I need to powder my nose."

Obviously, that wasn't the reply he was expecting. Hell, that's not even the reply I was expecting.

Not wasting another second, I find myself running into the ladies room. Well, as close to running as you could get when you're wearing 3 inch stiletto heels. The price of beauty is much too high. No pun intended.

My boyfriend just asked me to marry him.

Time to call in the best friend.

Unfortunately, the words, 'Hello is Lane there' barely left my mouth before Mrs. Kim interrupted me with, 'eight o clock, call tomorrow.' And the dial tone to my ear.

Okay, then mother dearest…

Not the smartest decision. She was in the middle of… bonding. With Luke. Not a very good mental picture there. I'll be scarred forever. Which leaves me with Jess.

Dear, dear Jess. Whose words, when I told him exactly was happened, were: "God help you."

"What do I do?"

"Beats me."

"But—

"Rory, just think of it this way, do you really want to spend the rest of your life with a guy who tapes Battlebots and smells his socks before he puts them on?"

"He smells his socks before he puts them on? Wait-how is it possible that you know this while I don't?"

"Locker room. It sucks. Half the reason why I don't go to school."

"You wouldn't go to school anyway."

"Wow I can feel the love."

"Jess, what do I do?"

"You realize you're asking me, of all people, for relationship advice."

"Shush, I'm desperate. Now talk, dear Abby. Before Dean gets mad and comes after me. And he doesn't look nice mad. His head kind of turns purple for a while and then this little blue vein in his forehead starts popping out and eventually it leads to high blood pressure at age 18 and—

"Rory."

"Sorry," I say, squeezing my eyes shut, half because I'm frustrated beyond repair and half because I just realized I'm sitting on the bathroom floor. And it doesn't even have interesting floor tiles, "You're right. I can't marry this guy. I'm only 17 for god's sake. I don't even know how about his… sock fetish. how could I even think… Oh jeez. Oh jeez oh jeez oh jeez--"

"Ror, breathe."

I managed, witha moderate level of struggle, tolet out a belated breath, glad to find that the room was no longer growing fuzzy, "You should become a yoga instructor."

"And Sylvester Stallone should make a Rocky 6," he sighed, something between a half sigh and half groan actually, "Rory, I don't want to influence your decision in any way seeing everything I even so far as to get involved in turns to a big smoking pile of rubble. You love him, right?"

"I guess,"was my distacted reply- wow it's amarble toilet. Rich people.

"Well then there you go."

"I go…?"

"You two have been together for what? Two years?"

"One and a half." Whoa it's a washlet. This toilet has a washlet! What, how lazy are these people?

"So you're practically married already."

"Mmhmm…" Holy cow there's flower design on the edge of the seat. At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if they used silk toilet paper worked through the backs of virgin monkeys,

"You know what? You should do it."

That got my attention, "What?"

"Get hitched. Just promise me your children won't be named after salad dressing flavors in Aisle 3."

"Ew no, I promise it'll be the citrus flavors in the gum stand," Wait, what am I saying? It should be the potato chip brands on aisle 5,"Jess I really, really don't think… "At a loss of words here. And trust me when I say that doesn't happen often, "But I'm only—

"17, yes. But Macculay Culkin got hitched at 17."

"Gee, look how well that turned out."

"I just don't want you to miss out on anything. Sitting at home alone chastising the male specimen to me over the phone while a pro-feminist movie plays out in the background isn't how I want you to end up in twenty years."

"Nope. That and annulment papers sitting on my desk," I shifted my position on the floor when my dress began to bunch around my thighs, "Hey, where will you be in twenty years?"

"Forklift at Wal-Mart."

"No, I meant in twenty years."

"… Forklift at Wal-Mart. Only then I'll have dozens of female homicides tracking me down with metal detectors for getting them pregnant."

"Ambitious, are we?"

"The ambitiousest."

The humor of the situation was quickly broken when two pearl-ridden ladies walked in, staring curiously. Whether it was because I had broken the golden rule of always going to the bathroom in pairs or because I was currently residing on the uninteresting bathroom floor tiles was beyond me.

Ending my phone call with Jess, I got up off the floor, brushing my skirt off and walking awkwardly to the sink. The glass sink. Wow. And I had previously thought the blueberry soap sitting in the kitchen soap dish was classy.

Could I get married? Scratch that, would I get married? Grandma would have a cow, no doubt. And at least I know that would make mom happy. I was thinking, with some level of amusement, of grandma's face expanding in size and doubling in color, well on it's road to chemically combusting when who should pop in but—

I sigh, "Dean, there's a reason why this is called the ladies room."

Now he sighs, "Because co-ed bathrooms aren't in right now in gold-cufflink society?"

"Close enough."

"Good to know," he slides to the floor, his backside landing roughly on the boring bathroom tiles, head in his hands and dejected look on his face, which changes rather quickly when he spots the toilet, "Is that… a flower?"

"Yup. Welcome to gold-cufflink society, Mr. Darcy."

"Mr. Who?"

"Mr. Darcy." blank look. "Pride and Preujudice?" still blank. "Jane Austen?" blank blank blank. "Forget it."

"Okay," he replies slowly. I find myself plopping down right next to him. Contemplating the situation at hand. And whether or not silk toilet paper is more flammable than normal toilet paper.

He speaks first, "Should we try this again?"

I look at him strangely, "You mean the sitting down thing?"

The question is more or less answered when he pulls out the ring, "Rory Gilmore, will you marry me?"

Here we go again.

My mind wandered back to my conversation with Jess. Then mentally slapped myself for thinking about another guy when my boyfriend was proposing. And then wandered back to Jess again.

'_Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with a guy who tapes Battlebots and smells his socks before he puts them on?'_

Hmm…. Good point there, Jess.

I looked over at Dean, fully prepared to say no. It was then when I realized my mistake. When preparing to say no to dejected boyfriend, do not look at the dejected boyfriend, who will be sitting there miserably on the boring bathroom floor beside the gold-lined toilet, dejected look on his face, having blown his entire life's saving as a bagboy on an expensive dinner that was more expensive than dinner. Afterwhich proposing, only to have your plan backfire. Not only backfire, but downright run him over, leaving tire marks on the only suit he owns. Marry him or not, you've got to feel sorry for him.

Nevertheless, I'm still going to say no. I was completely planning to say no.

Until who's voice should appear in my head but Jess'.

"_I don't want to influence your decision in any way."_

Haha. Influence.

"…_Seeing everything I even so far as to get involved in turns to a big smoking pile of rubble."_

Damn right it does.

"_You love him, right?"_

…Yes.

"_Well there you go."_

I go…?

"_You two have been together for what, two years? You're practically married already."_

Good point there, Jess-inside-my-head-who's-much-more-talkative-than-the-real-Jess.

I'm breathing again. Which I take is a good thing.

"Yes," I tell Dean.

… What did I just say?

Yes.

… Damn it.

**A/N: Ironically, going back to the part where Jess says with his usual dose of sarcasm, 'Yeah, and Sylvester Stallone shoulder make a Rocky 6,' dear Sylvester really is actually making a Rocky 6. And another Rambo movie. And Jess is going to be in it. Both of them. Not as Jess, of course. But as Rocky Jr. I think.**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Wow... people really dont like Dean. And you really really dont have to worry,I swear if this doesn't end up a lit, I'll eat my hand. To answer the thing about getting hitched at 17, I know that Rory probably wouldn't say yes. But I was watching the episode where Lorelai bails on Max during on the day before or on their wedding and I was thinking 'Hey, like mother like daughter right?' so that's where that came from. Not making much sense here so I'll just let you read now.**

White. The color of mom's face when I told her that her only daughter was getting married. The deer in the headlights look was then replaced by a thought-provoking and almost gleeful expression when she realized that this news would indeed make grandma's head chemically combust. Unfortunately it was right back to pale after that.

"You're… engaged," she repeated after me, forgetting about the pop-tarts she had previously stuck into the toaster.

"Just call me J. Lo," I replied, focusing on the task of putting out the fire that was currently spreading around our scorned toaster and rapidly deteriorating pop-tarts.

"Wow," she stepped back, in a daze, "My daughter. The Macculay Culkin of Stars Hollow."

"I wouldn't go that far," I said, dousing water over the flames as if it was an everyday occurrence, "Jess said—

"Wait, Jess? Jess said?"

Uh oh. By the look on mom's face, I don't think someone is going to wake up with his limbs fully attached tomorrow morning.

"Excuse me, I have to go do some serious hacking now," she starts towards the door, "Rory do you know where we keep our giant hedge clippers?"

This is bad. I block the doorway, "No mom, listen—

"No sweetie, listening is what got us into this mess. What we need right now is less listening, more strangling. Now where did I put that gardening hose…"

"There will be no strangling with gardening hoses. Half because it's illegal and half because when was the last time we gardened anything?"

"Hmm… I think it was before we hired that gardener for a week but after the pool boy left."

"Because we didn't have a pool?"

"No I think it was because I hid his clothes in our thornbush."

"… Mom that was a rosebush."

"Really? I thought rose bushes are supposed to—ah! No! Don't change the subject! You're still engaged and Jess is still losing an arm. Or a leg. I'm not picky, either one will do."

I steer her towards the kitchen table, quickly brushing the scissors and all sharp objects to the floor before sitting her down.

Clasping my hands with hers, I try my most convincing tone of voice, the tone I use to soothe Paris when she's prepared to bite the heads off quote on quote 'worthless, sniveling, freshmen', "I know you think I'm making a mistake. But I'm sure of this whole… engagement thing. I am."

Mom looks at me skeptically. Finally replying, "Honey, you realize that you took advice from Jess, right? He's no Dr. Phil. Do you know what his love life consists of? Skanks, illegal pot, skanks, and more illegal pot."

Jess. This reminds me, I haven't gotten around to telling Jess about the situation yet. No doubt he would want to know how all it all turned out last night at the restaurant. I suddenly find my palms turning extremely clammy. Where's hand lotion when you need it?

"Dean's a good kid I guess," Lorelai thought aloud, "Refills the water bottles. And I guess having grandchildren named after the citrus flavors in the gum stand won't be too bad," she frowns, "Luke is going to have a cow." The frown turns into a grin.

And alas, Luke did have a cow. In fact, what he had probably doesn't even qualify as a cow. More like… a mule. A very large, homicidal mule. With horns. Sharp, angry looking horns.

He's calm at first. Remaining expressionless throughout the entire tirade. Turning around when it ended to yell to Caesar, "Caesar, where did you put that meat-grinder?"

"We already ground out the burgers this morning." Was the reply.

"Oh believe me, we didn't get all of them."

And holding the meat grinder in his hands, Luke had stalked out with a determined look set on his face, heading straight towards Doose's, where an unsuspecting Dean was ringing out bags of cauliflower. That was about when mom and I ran after him, stopping him before he could turn Dean into tomorrow's special.

"I think you have it all wrong here," Lorelai was saying at warp speed, "See it's not Dean you're after."

"It's not?" Luke repeats, disbelievingly.

"Of course not," I reply, "You shouldn't be turning my fiancé into a three meal course—

"—When you should be slaughtering Jess for installing false ideas into my daughter's vulnerable mind."

Damn it mother. I jab her brashly in the ribs. Luke squints at her, "What are you saying?"

"It turns out the last person Rory called before her collapse of good judgment was none other than your manipulative nephew."

Remind me to dose my mom's head in snail goo when this is all over.

Luke, cursing under his breath, starts back toward the diner. Where I'm left to run after him. Again. Stopping him just as he's adjusting the meat grinder to the appropriate size.

"You're not going to grind Jess into burgers with that are you?"

Luke guffaws, "Of course not," he sticks his head into the kitchen, "Caesar! Where'd you put that baster?"

"Hey, there will be no basting your nephew," Lorelai cuts in quickly, pulling the baster from his grasp, "But I have a chainsaw in the garage. Cuts through like ice."

I snatch the baster from my mother, "No murdering Jess. Both of you. Not until I talk to him first, anyway. Is he upstairs?"

Luke blinks once. Then twice, "No, uh, actually. I think I… he's in New York with his mother. Lizs' wedding rehearsal. I think it's her… fourth one? No, there was that one with the shoe-shiner… and then came the one with the Hitler 'stache. No wait, first came the Buddist priest, then comes the Hitler 'stache."

"Wow. And I thought leather was in," Lorelai thinks aloud, "Hey, then shouldn't you be at your sister's wedding instead of here with us preparing to chainsaw massacre Dean's head?"

Luke scratches the top of his baseball cap, "I have a diner full of potential stroke victims to run. I'll be there for the real thing."

Wedding. Marriage. The words are making my stomach queasy. Queasier than when I swallowed that snail yesterday, if that's even possible. And, might I add, the room is starting to spin around in a rather colorful array of brown tables, "Hey," I say, clearing my throat, "What's Jess' address?"

OOOOOO

Jess lives in something similar to that of a shoe. I'm not kidding. With the alarming rate the walls are peeling and the amount of moss growing on the ceiling, I wouldn't be surprised if a giant foot suddenly fell from the sky.

Liz is nice enough. Nothing, if you ask me, like her monosyllabic son. It makes me wonder if Jess might have been found floating down the Nile and adopted at birth.

She instructs me to take a left down Second (Boulevard? I'm guessing the sign said boulevard. Before someone rubbed out every letter besides u and l-a-r-d, at least) and stop when I reach a shabby looking shack.

It was going rather well. Hadn't gotten lost yet, that's always good. The only problem was that when I arrived at my fated destination, I found that our shack—is a bar. Uh huh. Is that what they call bars these days? As in 'John's taking beer down at the shack.' Or ' I keep my loaded guns in the shack.' Or my personal favorite, 'Jess spends his free time in a shack. Why am I not surprised?'

This particular 'shack' isn't too shacky though. It may actually pass for mildly cozy if you ignore the marijuana wallpaper. And the crowd

I spot Jess right away, because you tend to stand out when you're sitting there in the corner reading while every other being in the room is jumping about screaming the lyrics to bad 80s techno music.

I plop down beside him, "Wow, I never thought I'd see this day. Jess Mariano overcoming his liquor store knocking ways. Finally deciding to obey the law for once?"

He snaps the book shut, "Nope. I was catching up with a couple of buddies. That was before the Samuel Adams war started anyway." He points to a boy swinging his shirt around on the counter, "See that guy there? Designated driver. Or until he started seeing double of everything. So now, the task has been handed down to me. The safety of these idiots now rest in my hands."

"Aha. And what are the chances you'll actually be driving them back?"

"Kirk has a better chance of getting laid, I'll tell you that."

My phone rings. Must be my mother.

I grin secretively to myself, jumping at the chance to avenge my mother for her using her House of Kinks recording as our answering machine, I flip open the phone, "This is Bunny Airheaded, exotic dancing at it's best. Press one for our free trial, guaranteed STD- free. Press two for--

"Rory?"

… Damn it.

I gulp, "Oh. Hi Dean."

Thankfully, he doesn't ask too many questions, "O...kay, so I, uh, went to see you this afternoon."

"Really?" I shoot a glance at Jess, "I've been out. Errand run. To, uh, Hartford. Very , very long errand run."

I've been engaged for less than 12 hours and I'm already making up excuses. This can't be the sign of a healthy oncoming marriage.

"Is that Madonna I hear playing in the background?" Dean questions, sounding very puzzled. Partly because the last time 'Papa Don't Preach' was playing on the radio station, I crammed cottonballs into my ears and ended up deaf in my left ear for an entire week.

"Oh, well…" I laugh nervously, "You caught me. It's, uh, guilty pleasure?" Guilty pleasure my ass.

He chuckles at this, "Well I'll be sure to tell the DJ that at our wedding, then."

Great. My wedding will now consist of 'Like a Virgin' on full-blast through the speakers. I bang my head against the table, cursing my idiocy.

"What was that?"

"I hit my head. Complete accident," I mutter. Wow. Even this tablecloth has marijuana leaf designs on it, "I'll, uh, call you later okay?" I hang up, forehead still pressed against the table. Without a doubt, it'll be imprinted with little marijuana leaf designs by the time I regain enough drive to lift my head from this rather uncomfortable position here.

Jess spoke first, "Who was that?"

Only my soon-to-be-husband. But I couldn't tell him that. No wait, yes I can! Tell him. Don't be a wimp, Rory. Tell him, tell him tell him--

"A friend," I lie. You wimp, I curse myself. I suddenly find myself becoming very nervous. And thirsty, "Hey, can I get some water?"

A bartender looks at me funnily before bursting into laughter, "Nice one," he says, "A coke and a rum it is." A coke and a what?

Jess wasn't about to let go so easily, "That friend wouldn't happen to be named Dean, would he?"

"Well, uh, you know. It is quite a popular name these days. Dean, Dean Martin, Dean Sampson, Dean Bourgini. You know Jess is a nice name too. Jess Jess Jess… Can't think of any Jess' right now. But good, good name, Jess is. Hey listen! Bruce Springsteen's on—big step up from Madonna, huh?"

He expression remains unfazed. Of course, being Jess, his entire facial expression wardrobe consists of a grand total of 3 expressions. Number one being what I like to call the 'Go away' face. Number two being the 'I'm warning you…' face, usually following the 'Go away' face. And number three is the super-rare face. When he actually smiles and doesn't look like he wants to blow up the world. That face is rarer than seeing a dog with two heads. And the only times where I've ever witnessed it were when I admitted to reading Hemmingway and the time Taylor slipped on the egg-salad sandwich Kirk threw on the sidewalk as his 'God made dirt, dirt won't hurt' experiment.

Anyway, now was leaning towards the number two, the 'I'm warning you' face.

The bartender comes over with my drink. The coke with bum. Or something like that. I shoot him a grateful smile. The very same grateful smile one would shoot another who has saved them from muggers. But this is better. This guy saved me from dehydration and a panic attack. I'd hug him, but I'm too thirsty.

"You don't want to drink that," Jess says, stopping me.

"Oh yeah. I want to dehydrate and dry up into a shriveling sack of bones."

It turns out Jess was right, I hastily spit the drink out, "This-This is alchohol!" I sputter, "Do they know I'm underage?"

If you think about it though, this is kind of funny. I'm allowed to get married but not to drink beer.

He ignored my question, "You didn't say yes did you?"

… Did I? I'll let you answer that yourself.

He looks down at the tablecloth, "'Cause, you know, I've been thinking, I shouldn't have told you to marry him last night. You aren't… engaged right now are you?"

Wow. Suddenly feeling very thirsty again. I down the concoction of coke and bum, managing to ignore the rancid aftertaste. Because when you could eat a snail, you can take anything.

I shake my head, I'm lying through my teeth now, "Why else wouldn't I be wearing a ring?" …Well because I left it by the sink. But he doesn't need to know that. He seems satisfied with this answer because stops the interrogating and orders a drink. Silently thanking the usage of blue soap, which had triggered me to remove the ring in the first place, I suddenly find myself feeling very crappy. Being I just lied to two people in an increment of five short minutes. Lightheaded with guilt, I order another drink. Being apparently, they don't serve water in bars. Last time I checked water was supposed to be a drink.

Jess finishes his too and gets another one, a strange solution that looks frightening similar to Coca Cola. It's suddenly painfully obvious why people get away with spiking punch bowls so easily.

Let me just take this time to sayI don't get drunk. Any usage of drugs in Stars Hollow—and let me tell you, you'd be more likely to find Taylor in a speedo than drugs in Stars Hollow, isn't allowed within a 10 foot radius of me. Of course all this changed when Jess came to town, a dozen packs of lung-rotting cigarettes in tow, but nevertheless, I don't get drunk.

And I'm not drunk right now. I swear. Three more drinks can hardly qualify as drunk.

Wow. Everything's… upside down.

And as the world is beginning to swirl around in bright neon colors, it's becoming abundantly clear what inspired the tye- dye trend of the sixties-- and that the guy I am now lying on top of isn't Dean.

**… And the plot thickens. **


	3. Chapter 3

It's Jess. Of course it's Jess. Who else would it be? I'm drunk, not pimping. Anyhow, I'm lying on top of him. He's waking up, he's waking up… and he's… Kirk?

I scream. More like shriek, which ends up morphing into the sound a deranged chicken makes when it's headed into the shredder. Not an attractive sound, to say the least.

I jump off the bed, coming face to face with a portrait of an old man holding a fish, sharing a rather striking resemblance to Taylor…

"Young lady you should be ashamed of yourself!" Taylor in the portrait yells abruptly, swinging the fish at me, "Booking a room for one when clearly," he gestures towards Kirk, "There's two of you."

"Honey," Kirk says, his voices deepens, his features slowly melding into that of… Dean? "Did you tuck Lem in?"

Lem? What the hell is—

"Our children need their sleep," Dean continues tantalizingly, "All 16 flavors. Lemon, Citrus, Nectarine, Tang—

"Rory!" Jess yells, bursting into the room. Oh Jess. Thank god there's at least one sane being in here—

"I love you!"

…and I'm clearly mistaken again. He what?

"You what?" I say, my mouth is moving but the words aren't coming out.

"Come away with me!"

Insane. Very very very insane. But not as insane as waking up next to Kirk. Okay.

"Okay," I mouth. No sound. It's like it's the defining moment of a television movie and some idiot has decided to sit on the mute button. I try again, still no avail.

He turns around to leave, disappearing into the hall. Damn it Jess, I yell—still muted, of course. Kids, dozens of tiny kids wearing "hi my name is" followed by a citrus flavor nametags and dressed in gum wrappers at my feet, "Mommy! Mommy!"

I'm screaming now. Screaming, screaming…

Taylor whacks me on the head with the fish, shaking his finger, "Nuh uh uh, 19.95 a night. Nuh uh uh, 19.95 a night. Rebates are for members only. Rebates are for members only. Rebates are—Damn it Rory wake up!" Water. Splashing me in the face.

Cold, cold water. I blink. One, twice. I shake my head, opening my mouth to make some half-hearted remark about solar heating before he splashes me again.

"Jesus, stop screaming! I swear, half our mirrors have shattered…" Taylor again, this time sounding strangely similar to… Jess?

And… I'm dreaming. Thank god. Thank thank thank god. I bolt up from my resided position on the floor of Jess' bathroom—I seem to have a particular liking towards lavatory grounds. Noting with much relief there was no Kirk in sight. Or Taylor. Or tiny ankle-biting toddlers named after citrus fruits. Instead though, Jess is kneeling in front of me. And wow, look, he's holding a cup of water—which of half the contents are spilled on my head. I can't be looking too gorgeous right now, to say the least. But Jess, modeling a lovely scowl on his face and appearing very much like the posterboy for insomnia, isn't much better off.

I squint at him, "Jess?"

"At least you're not calling me Kirk anymore," he gets up off the ground are goes over to the sink to refill the cup, "You know you're very scary when you're drunk. You started singing along to Dolly Parton, where I'd rather not think about how or why you know the words to Straight Talk. And after counting every last one of the marijuana leaves on the wallpaper, you named them after soap stars from the 80s, where you stopped at Heather Locklear to pursue the daunting task of making me a pirate hat out of napkins."

A pipe in the sink or something gets stuck, he nonchalantly gives it a whack, causing it to sputter and in one last sigh of defeat, continue to spray hopefully filtered sink water more or less inside the cup, "And after going through an entire napkin dispenser with no avail, the bartender had enough sense to kick us out. And might I add, when going to a bar, the last thing I expect to get kicked out for is for using up 50 rolls of napkins."

At this, he hands me the water. Water, good old H2O. Okay, now just tilt your head back and pour…

Ow! Ow ow ow… Pain! Pain! Don't like pain!

I let out a groan of anguish, hitting my head against the seat of the toilet bowl in the process, an action that no doubt is doing nothing for the painful banging in the depths of my head, "Will someone please tell Matthew McConahey that my brain is not a bongo?"

"Oh well I'm sure it's a relief to his neighbors that he's no longer taken up with playing them at his house in the nude anymore."

I send him my withering glare. The same one I shot Chuck Presby in the seventh grade when he decided he felt a sudden urge to stick his hand up my skirt one day, "Are you taking amusement in my obvious state of pain, doctor evil?" Doctor Evil? Ouch, I really need to touch up on my pop culture references.

Ahhh... Ringing in my ears. Ringing, buzzing, ringing…

"Ror—your cellphone, which you're currently sitting on at the moment, is ringing."

Oh. That explains a lot. I'm going to kill whoever's on the other line for making my head pound in pain, "What?"

"It's me. I'm on my way to see you."

"… God?"

"No, Dean. You know, your fiancé?" …This is the part where the water, which had originally entered through my mouth, exited through my nose. "Who you haven't seen for the past two days?" He says slightly louder, over my sputtering.

"Oh." Has it really been that long?

He sighs, "How's Jess?"

"He's great, why?" Shoot. I hit my head with the palm of my hand afterwards, cursing my stupidity for affirming that indeed, I was with Jess. The same Jess who Dean happens to strongly dislike for some unknown reason beyond me. That alcohol is really screwing up my brain cells.

"I just overheard your mom tell Luke, and these are the exact words she used, 'Today is Rory's first sleepover with a boy. Named _Jess_. I hoped she brought her pretty pajamas and necessary contraptions.'"

Curse my mother and her obscenely loud vocal points.

I chuckle nervously, shooting a helpless look at Jess, "Uh, well, that's Lorelai for you. My alive and breathing mother who is a little too alive and breathing for her own good. But I'm sure I can fix tha—hold on, call waiting."

I switch over, thankful for the stall time, "Hello?"

"Your fiance heard me tell Luke about your sleeping with Jess."

"You're making me sound like a hooker. And thank you for informing me so, about ten seconds too late."

"So… did you remember the contraptions?"

"Mom!"

"Right, right. Sorry," A beat, "So did you?"

"I'm not sleeping with Jess!" I say not-too-quietly, provoking a startled look from a previously insomnia ridden Jess. Because I inherited my cursed mother's obscenely loud vocal points, you see.

I shoot him a sheepish grin, feeling my face turn into the temperature equal to that of a Dante's Peak in the midst of it's explosion. Preferably the part where Pierce Brosnan gets buried by those falling rocks.

He shakes his head in response, scratching his Don King-esque type hair and heading out the bathroom, leaving me alone. In his bathroom. On the floor. Half draped over the toilet. It all seems very surreal, somehow.

"Hon? Rory? You still there? Do I have to speak whale to get your attention?"

"Right, sorry. Go ahead mom."

"All right. Aaaare yyyyou stiiiill—

"Mom you'll wake the neighbors."

"Oh they're already up. My screaming must've set them off from when I lit the toaster on fire half an hour ago."

"How—oh god have mercy did you try to cook?"

"… Maybe. I might'vehad a sudden mile-deep craving forcookies."

"You don't use toasters to bake cookies, Sara Lee."

"You're telling me."

"Well was anybody hurt?"

"No. We might be having cold poptarts for the weeks to come though. Until we find ourselves a replacement for Phil, anyway."

"Phil? Who's—Mommy, have you been dirty again?"

"Oh no sweetie, lady's night at Pattys' isn't until Thursday. Phil's just the--" there was a distinct crash on the other end, "Ow! Ow! Aw man the-- shoot! Well, scratch out microwaveable pizza from the list, too."

From what I can interpret, the crash from the other end could only mean my mother has singlehandedly succeeded in destroying every last domestic kitchen utensil in the Gilmore household, "Did you kill Frank again?"

"Don't accuse mommy of murdering the microwave when she's clearly in distress, my villainous child," she pauses for a moment, "Hey, did never told me how your conversation with Dean went."

Dean.

…Uh oh.

Mumbling hasty curses that would've made even Jess proud, I switched over to my long-neglected fiancé, "Dean! Sorry. So, uh, where did you say you were at, right now?"

"Your front step. Or technically, Jess' front step. Wow. This place is like a shoebox."

This cannot be good. No it can not.

"Uh, hold on, please. D-Don't ring the doorbell!" Don't panic. Don't panic, "Don't ring it! I mean it!" Not panicking. "I mean, Jess is sleeping. And you don't want to him to wake up because trust me, the guy looks like Weird Al on acid when he's awakened prematurely from his R.E.M state snore-fest. Just kidding! Jess doesn't snore. Or does he? I should check sometime. But not now. Because, you know, I'm not sleeping with him. Oh no not in that sense! Or in the other sense. Or in any other sense for that matter because, uh, I'm kind of half-married to y-you." See? Not panicking at all. "Hold on please."

Never before have I been so thankful to have my mother on the other line. I switch over, "Mom—you can stop speaking whale now, I'm back."

"Oh. Okay good. Luke was starting to get annoyed."

Luke? "L-Luke?"

"Yeah. He's over here right now. To fix Phil. And Frank. He's like superman, I swear. He's got the spear and everything!

I hear Luke calling exasperated in the background, "It's a screwdriver, Lorelai."

She scoffs gleefully, "Dirty. Well, I've got to get back to my toaster strudel conceiving savior, bye Rory!"

Dial tone is ringing in my ear before I could even let out a scream of frusteration. Shoot. To top it off, Dean's still on the other line, my head is still one step away from chemically combusting and splattering all over the floor of Jess' bathroom, and yes, Jess does snore because I could hear him all the way from in here. Even as I'm covering my ears right this second. Covering my ears and about one second away from igniting into a full blown panic attack involving razors, exploding heads, screaming, feathers, chainsaws—

No! Focus, Rory, focus. Dying and combusting into thousands of little pieces will not help your odds. Answer the door, yes, that's what you do. Answer the door before Dean gets tired of waiting and decides to ring the doorbell. This way, Jess will continue his state of REM sleep, your brain will still be intact, and all will be well in the world

OOO

All is well in the world. I have exited the shoe-box imitation-like premises and am now residing inside Dean's car. Where we are sitting in silence. Not counting his horrendous Reggae Fever CD blasting through the speakers.

I speak first, "Remind me to burn this CD for you when you're out of town."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Back to silence. Painful, awkward silence.

And turning awkwarder by the second as he is now wrapping his arms very suddenly around my waist and taking absolutely no notice my breathing was becoming equal to that of a fish out of water.

"Uh, Dean?" What the hell are you doing? I want to shriek, What the heck in hell are you trying to—"What exactly are you doing?"

He doesn't answer. Or maybe nuzzling his mouth against my ear is an answer enough in Sexual-innuendo-land, I don't know. I wouldn't know. Jess would know. Tristin would too. And so would every girl he'd ever taken for a short trip into the supply closet, for that matter. Why am I thinking of Tristin and Jess when my boyfr—er- fiance's sticking his tongue in my ear? Holy cow when did that happen! Okay, time to push him off.

"Okay Dean I think it's time to—Ah! Whoa dental regions to yourself please…" I sit up very suddenly, scooting as far off as I can, "It's not that I don't enjoy your, uh, tonguing, but what are you doing?"

Dean sighs, leaning back in his seat, "I just thought—Rory, how long have we been together?"

How long? How long how long… "… A long time?"

"Yes. That's why, I, uh," He looks nervous. Why is he nervous? He's sweating. Why is he sweating? This can't be good. Sweating can never lead to anything good, "I think we should go to the next step."

I'm pretty sure I've eaten my mouth or something. Because somebody has obviously decided it'd be funny to sew my lips together. Say something. Say something. Say—

"Oh-kay…." I say. Shoot. That's not what I—

"Okay?" he looks surprised, "You mean… okay? Or just _okay_?"

"…." Which one is the one that screams NO NO NO NO NO? Oh yeah, "No. I meant no."

Wow. He looks like I shot his dog. This is more than a half-drunk half-hungover girl can handle.

"Oh," he looks humiliated, pulling back, "Oh."

"Look, Dean. You're a very, very… good guy." If you don't count the fact you tried to stick your tongue in my ear a couple seconds ago, "And I'm sure one day, just not now, we'll be… uh… you know. But _this_, for the time being, is really, really, not a good idea. Really, not."

He's straining to keep his face straight, "Okay, it's okay. I mean, um, you want to wait for our wedding night, it's fine."

Wedding night.

It very suddenly feels like the cafeteria lady's churning the contents in my stomach in circles.

Jesus, I'm not even ready for sex with him, how the hell am I supposed to get married?

"Dean," I start to say, "I don't think—" I stop at that. Because hello, I don't think the guy could take another rejection, "I think I should go now."

And I go. Back up the stairs. Back to Jess' shoebox apartment. Back to the ground outside his door, because I realize I don't have the key and I really don't feel like facing any human lifeform, funny hair or not, right now. And may I mention, I did this all while feeling equivalent to scum scrubbed off the bottom of a safari-trekker's boot.

I don't remember how long I sat there. Time flies pretty fast when your head's quaking in pain and there's funny designs in the peeling wallpaper to keep you occupied. Liz was actually the one to find me first. She went out to clean the doormat, and there I was. Sitting on the dirt-encrusted Welcome mat.

And while I was residing on her formentioned on the dirty doormat, she invited me to her bachelorette's party. Forced me was more like it. Because, as she said, "We booked Bendy Ben, the special exotic male dancer who strips down around Arlington someplace-or-other. It's a big step up from Brucie B, the guy has more STDs than a hormonally enhanced lab rat. And plus he's as stiff as a beanpole, ya can't do anything with him. Know what I mean?"

No I don't know what you mean. And I really wouldn't want to know what you mean.

Luckily, Jess came barreling over a couple seconds later, stopping his mom from "corrupting the fucking town paragon," as he put it. All while grabbing my arm and dragging me away from the likes of his wildly generative mother into the safety of his room.

OOO

If Bendy Ben is considered high class stripping, I'd hate to see what Brucie B. is.

After a R-rated remake of a male-versioned Moulin Rouge complete with feather hats which let me tell you, were more feather than hat, Bendy Ben managed to make it halfway through a gutty rendition of a tribute to John Travolta before he was brutally attacked by the mob of Lizs' deprived friends. Liz herself included. Apparently the words 'getting married' in Liz-world still find it okay for her to go around chasing male hookers in feathers. But hey, I'm not judging. All the more power for her, I guess.

Jess joins me by the punch bowl 20 minutes later, where I'm sitting, covering my eyes to avoid seeing middle-aged women snapping the undergarments of a miserable male-hooker forced into a gown not even Nicole Kidman would wear.

"Is it over yet?" I question her through the safety of my fingers.

He casts a quick glance over to the stripper table, "I'd give it about 5 more minutes." He turns his attention back to me, "So where'd you go this morning?"

Might as well tell him. "Dean kind of came over."

"Kind of?" I can't tell if he's mad or not. Maybe it's because I'm still covering my eyes.

I let my hands drop. Big mistake. I find myself looking over at a very disturbing scene involving… well, I saw a nipple ring where you really shouldn't be finding a nipple ring, let's just leave it at that.

"Okay, so he did come over," I admit, gulping down a rather large amount of punch to keep my mouth occupied while I search for something to say, "Nothing happened though," No reply. "I mean, we kissed- he tried to stick his tongue in my ear at one point," Did I just say that? "But I swear that's all that happened!" Haha… Liar, "Okay maybe not." I'm talking to myself more than anything now. First sign of an oncoming case of insanity? "He wanted to sleep with me." I finished my monologue at that.

Jess had previously been sipping a large cup of punch, which had been in his mouth preparing to be swallowed. Unfortunately the punch was now less in his mouth, more on the table after this statement was made.

He coughs, "Shit. He w…" he stops, shaking his head, "God I need a drink right now. You didn't do it did you?

"No I didn't 'do it'," I tell him, rather offended.

"Are you sure?"

"Jess, I think I would be the first to know if I have sex or not."

"Unless you're drunk. Were you drunk?"

"No mother, I wasn't drunk."

"Jesus…" he rubs his hands on his face, sliding back in his chair, "Where the hell is the bartender? Hey!" he grabs the shirt of an unsuspecting man in an apron, "Get me a keg, will you?"

"You're not 21."

"And you're a regular Sherlock Holmes. But that's not what my mother and her hormonally discharged chick friends are paying you for, is it? Get me a beer."

He still refuses, like any other bartender who wants to keep their job. I grab Jess' face in my hands, forcing him to look at me, "Look, Jess, I haven't been completely honest with you about Dean."

He groans, "Here we go."

I choose to ignore him, "He and I are en—" …engaged. Engaged engaged engaged! Damn it why can't I say it? Calm down, deep breath, take a long sip of punch and try again, "he and I are…"… say something! "He and I are meeting for coffee tomorrow." Chicken. Wimp. Wuss. Sissy.

He narrows his eyes, "Is that, what, like a code for something?"

"No, it's just coffee. If we were going to have wild unadulterated sex in Taylor's backyard, I would have told you were practicing for the Music Man screenplay."

"So when you start marching around furry top hats, I should be worried?"

"Precisely." Wow, is it just me or is the room starting to spin? I take another swing of punch.

"Okay then," he turns around to yell at the bartender, "Hey! How long does it take to get a beer around here?"

Jess eventually gets his beer, I think. I wouldn't know. Everything became fuzzy after my 10th cup of punch.

OOOO

Not again. Ugh. Not again not again not again...

Jess. I'm lying on top of Jess. Yes, again. It's morning, the birds are (or should be) chirping, but I wouldn't know, I'm in a motel room for gods' sake. Only this time, it's not a dream. And I should know, I've pinched myself four times already.

"This isn't happening, this isn't happening," And there's a portrait of an old man on the wall. An old man who looks like Taylor. This can't get any worse.

Oh wait, there're tiny dancing cats on the wallpaper. Okay _now_ it can't get any worse.

Maybe I could hide in the bathroom? … No, that would involve getting up. Not a good idea considering my underwear is hanging from the doorknob.

Cry? Technically, according to every soap opera or angsty lifetime movie my mother and I have ever indulged upon, I should be crying. But strangely enough, I don't feel like bursting into a flood of tears and screaming about the bane of my existence. Nope. If anything, I'm relieved.

Until the reality of the situation comes crashing down. The fact that I'm engaged, Dean is going to go bananas, Luke is going to go bananas plus haywire, my mother would probably never let me watch Runaway Bride again for as long as I live, my grandma will file harassment charges, Jess will spend the rest of his fugitive- on- the- run life paying off the forementioned charges, Lane's mom will hear of this and force her to retreat into a convent, and Lane will spend the rest of her life hating me for igniting her mother to move her into the convent.

And on top of all that, I'm starting to feel sick. If there was any doubt in my mind my actions last night were fueled by very, very spiked punch at a certain bachorlette party, this hangover will wipe them clear off the charts. I can barely hear a thing will all the hammering going on in my skull.

Oh great. And now Jess is waking up. He groans, squinting at me, "Rory? What the hell are— Holy crap!" And he has seen the old man holding the fish, "Please tell me we did not just have sex in this room with Taylor senior watching over us."

I'm not listening. You know why? I'm holding something in my hands. You know what they are?

I slam the papers on the bed, "Marriage License papers. June 23, Jess Mariano and Rory Gilmore wed at the Fisherman Wharfing Motel Church."

He snatches the papers from the bed, "You're kidding me right? Christ—" followed by a series of curses that even Howard Stern would be impressed with.

All of a sudden, the bathroom doesn't seem like such a bad place to be.


End file.
